


Pride and Prejudice

by accidentallybroken



Series: The Magic of the Mages [3]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fire, Magic, Multi, Pride, Vampires, Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallybroken/pseuds/accidentallybroken
Summary: " Magic burned deep within her, lighting her eyes, warming her heart, blossoming in her hands. She could rule the world, if so she chose."





	Pride and Prejudice

     Natasha was a Pitch, and by Merlin, Pitches  _would_ have pride. Her mother had lit fire to the sky, her father could turn a vote with a single nod of the head. Why shouldn't she be proud? She was fierce, smart, and ruthless. Magic burned deep within her, lighting her eyes, warming her heart, blossoming in her hands. She could rule the world, if so she chose.

      Fiona had the same fire. In her, though, it flamed up, shooting out. It didn't forge her in fire the way it did Natasha. Fi's strength was in her ability to just  _decide_ she would do something,and it would be done. She looked up to Natasha, depended on her in a way that Fiona would be ashamed of if it were anyone but her sister. After all, Pitches didn't need anyone, but they were fiercely loyal. 

      _"Now, Natasha, remember to speak clearly, and show them your power." Morganna looked at her daughter, only her eyes betraying her worry. She was about to face the Trials, which her admittance to Watford depended on. "I expect you will do well."_

_That was how it worked in their family. You were expected to do something, often without it being said, and you did it. They were expected to perform, and so they did._

_Fiona smoothed her white streak (she was too young to take the Trials yet, but she was coming along), Natasha straightening her long black skirt. Archibald looked over her, nodding slightly in approval. He was only a Pitch by marriage, but he had learned that stern, unyielding, sophisticated power from his wife, and passed it on to his daughters. Natasha tightened her grip on her wand with the leather handle. She wouldn't fail._

     Fail, she did not. She wowed the judges with her powerful display of magic, the fire resting in her palm, the sophisticated carriage uncommon in a child of her age. They respected her name, and she fully intended to live up to it. 

     (A few years later, Fiona didn't fail either. She impressed with her explosive magic, her anger [Natasha was never quite sure about what; Fiona always seemed a little pissed off] fueling her. )

     Surprisingly enough, Natasha loved Watford. She loved the magic in the air, the bright chatter, the classes, the school. It was all so exciting, and she was so  _good_ at magic, and her classes. Even though she kept her cool demeanor, Watford was so much more freeing than the dark rooms at home. She didn't have friends, exactly (she was expected to keep to specific social circles), but she was respected, and her fire for magic, for learning, for  _life,_ was admired. Magic was power, and no one there had more. 

    As the eldest daughter, there was always the assumption that she would be the one to continue her families politics, be the face of the Pitches among the Old Families when she was an adult. To some, this would have seemed oppressive, and maybe it was. However, there was no doubt in her mind that she could do it, and why not use her power, her brilliancy? She could learn everything they taught and more. 

     Her teachers were impressed by her work, and her Magical Words teacher, her favorite, whispered that if she wanted, Natasha could probably end up with a position at Watford, maybe even headmaster. Why not? It was easy to imagine, passing on her love for learning, for magic, to the next generation. Education mattered. 

   Fiona came along, a few years later. She was not half the student her sister was, no one was expecting her to be headmaster or a politician. She could goof off, screw around, waste her time. Natasha would be jealous if she wasn't perfectly happy working hard.

    Sometimes, though, it was lonely, to be a step ahead and a rung above her classmates. Yes, they were the most powerful magicians of her age, as it should be (why should someone who couldn't compete be allowed in the school?), but they weren't like her. She was driven, fully expecting to be headmistress as soon as Bartholomew Candre stepped down. 

    _She spent days in the library, poring through tomes for spells as old as magic. Normally she was alone, but one day she noticed a boy looking at her through the gap where she pulled her book from. He inclined his head to her coolly, turning back to the table he was working at. She looked at him curiously. He wasn't part of one of the Old Families, but he had the dignified mannerisms of the pseudo-aristocratic air these people always exuded._

_He had an intense widow's peak, a thin nose, and a green sweater. Natasha would often see him there, reading books and taking notes. She thought she was the only one in Watford that consistently studied._

     Eventually, she learned his name was Malcolm, the Grimms were farmers, he didn't care about politics but wanted to do well for himself, and he enjoyed dressing well. She learned everything there was to know about him, and became his confidante, his closest friend, his girlfriend. 

     Fi never thought he was good enough for her. Maybe he wasn't. There was nothing special about him, really, but he made her feel something special. She defended him in three duels before he accepted her proposal. He was by her side when she became headmistress, and he was there when she fought the reforms of the radical David. She had a  _son_ with him, a beautiful boy with a strong name, rosy cheeks, and a sweet laugh. 

     Natasha didn't back down, not when she was asked to lower Watford's standards, not when Fiona's boyfriend was stricken from the book, not when Malcolm asked her to, for goodness's sake, stop letting their son read  _everything._

     She would stay in her office with a cup of tea and a desk smelling like cloves, writing letters and curriculum with Basilton reading a book, while leaning against her leg. She would speak in front of the Coven, lead school assemblies, help out in classrooms.

     She wouldn't stop, not until there was nothing left to accomplish, nothing left to learn. 

     She was there at Watford when the vampires attacked, when all she could think of was that her  _son_ was down there, her little boy, and she would stop at nothing to keep him safe. She entered the nursery with her hands and heart full of fire, and she fought savagely and then the vampire picked up Basilton, and her wand swiped through the air, and she felt fangs on her neck  **Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,** then there was nothing, then there was  _something._

She was behind the Veil, which had always fascinated her, but now that she was here she was struck by how  _dull_ it was. She knew who had killed her, it was Davy, and Nicodemus knew, and she had to tell someone, but she had to wait.

    Her thoughts were normally much more concise. She had never thought run-on thoughts would be a side effect of Death. 

    When the Veil lifted she would find her son, because she watched him, and she was so proud. She wanted to see him again, but her visit had to have purpose. She had to tell him about how she died, why she died, who killed her, so justice could be served. He would do a better job than Malcolm, anyway.

    When she tried to pass over, though, she couldn't find him. He wasn't at school, wasn't at home. She kept returning to his room, but he wasn't there. 

    Finally, she had to say something. She made herself visible to the golden boy that Basilton was in love with. A bit chaotic, perhaps, and totally devoted to the Mage, but a good boy nonetheless. 

     When she spoke, he was afraid. However, he seemed to listen. She kissed him on the forehead, and left. 

     All there was left to do was wait. 

     She believed in Basilton, he would do right.

     After all, he was a Pitch, and better still, he was her son. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really interested in writing about Natasha for a while, so this is my attempt. Her parent's names are made up (throughout the fic, I used a lot of pretentious names, like Rainbow named Baz's family) , and The World of the Mages as a matriarchy makes sense to me. Like Penelope, I find her magic (and her character) admirable, even if it's a little hard to write from a political perspective that I don't entirely agree with.  
> Title, obviously, from Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. I thought it was fitting, considering the politics of the Pitches.  
> Not Brit-Picked, Beta'd, or even read over by the lazy author.  
> Comments, kudos, constructive criticism, and psychic messages appreciated.


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